


G is for Grimoire

by FenHarelMaGhilana (WhitethornWolf)



Series: Fortune Favour Me [21]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/FenHarelMaGhilana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eilin gets in over her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	G is for Grimoire

_I shouldn't have come here on my own._

The thought looped around and around her mind as she picked her way through the swamp, grimacing as her boots sank into the sodden ground. The air was thick and humid, and her clothes clung to her skin. She didn't remember it being this damp and smelly, though she was probably too distracted by grief when she'd bumbled through here seven months ago. Or maybe she only noticed it now because she wanted to be distracted.

 _Flemeth must die,_ Morrigan had said with as much conviction as Eilin had ever seen from her, and Maker knew the thought of throwing herself at a powerful, possibly ancient, witch didn't bring her any joy. But Morrigan was her friend and it was the only thing she'd ever really asked for - and the least Eilin could do was try.

She'd slipped away from camp with the excuse of hunting, even taking Zevran's battered old bow with her for appearances. She'd stashed it just outside the camp and hoped desperately she'd be able to find it later - or that she would be alive to retrieve it. She had to wonder, as she picked her way across the swamp, if she'd always been this insane or whether the stress of the Blight had finally driven her around the bend. Seeking out Flemeth was a dangerous enough plan, but confronting her alone was suicidal.

The old hut was just as she remembered - ancient, weathered, half-choked with ivy and rotting moss. Flemeth sat in a chair by the fire pit, stitching a robe thrown over her knees. Her white, wispy hair and bent head made her look like nothing more than an old woman, and Eilin hesitated, relaxing the grip on her sword.

"And so you return," Flemeth said without looking up, and she jerked in surprise. "Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, is she not?"

Swallowing her fear, Eilin stepped onto the path to the hut. "I've come to talk. Nothing more."

"So you say." The witch finally set aside her robe and glanced up, studying the other woman with piercing eyes, and crooked a finger at her. "Come closer, Grey Warden, so we may … talk."

An uncomfortable weight settled on Eilin's chest, and her skin tingled unpleasantly at the wash of magic over her. She took a wobbly step forward, then another.

 _No!_ she cried silently, trying with all her might to dig her heels into the ground. Her body ignored the resistance, her legs carrying her forward along the path towards the witch.

Flemeth lowered her hand and Eilin smothered a gasp as the weight lifted. She stood not three feet from the witch, still gripping her sword so tightly it hurt. To draw it would surely provoke the witch to attack, but oh, how badly she wanted to.

"There's a smart lass," Flemeth said as Eilin let her hand drop. "Now, what has Morrigan told you? What little plan has she hatched this time?"

It was useless to refuse her an answer; the witch would probably just...extract it from her mind, or something equally unpleasant. "She knows how you extend your unnatural lifespan."

"That she does. The question is, do you?"

The question threw Eilin off guard, much as she tried not to show it.

"It's what she told me," she replied simply. "A tale of how you have lived for so long."

Flemeth stood up and moved closer; Eilin backed away, hand tight on her sword.

"It is an old tale," the witch said, her eyes glittering dangerously. "One that even Flemeth has told. The ending, though, is up to you. Do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids, or does the tale take a different turn?"

"That depends," Eilin said warily, and backed up another step. "Don't come any closer."

"Oh, I won't have to."

The air crackled with energy. Drawing her sword, Eilin took another step backwards. There was a flash of movement at the edge of her vision, and she darted to one side on instinct.. She wasn't quick enough to avoid the tree branch that yanked her upwards roughly, sending a stab of pain through her arm. Rough bark scraped her sides and the ground fell away from her. Panicking, she thrashed as branches curled around her legs and arms, pinioning her so tightly she could barely move.

Flemeth waved her hand and the grip tightened until Eilin cried out. Twisting, she tried to reach for the dagger at her hip - she may as well have been shackled with iron, for all the good it did.

"Damn you," she rasped, wincing as the grip on her limbs tightened. "You think I want to do this? I have no choice. I need Morrigan."

"Do you?" the witch looked amused. "As it happens, so do I. You, on the other hand..."

"If you don't need me, then kill me." It was a poor bluff, and the tremble in her voice gave her away. "What are you waiting for? Make your point."

"Kill you?" Flemeth repeated, and tapped her fingers against her chin. "Tempting, but no. Ferelden needs its Grey Wardens, even the foolish ones."

"It was loyalty that brought me here."

"Loyalty, foolishness...I see little difference."

Flemeth twitched her hand and the branches twisted. Eilin swallowed hard against the sick fear that bubbled in her stomach - but the tree only lowered her so her face was inches from the old woman's. Shaking, she tried not to stare directly into her eyes.

"You waste your time," Flemeth said, and her voice held no trace of its usual mocking tone. "Morrigan knows nothing of loyalty. I should know - she's my daughter."

"She's better than you think." Eilin gave up trying to twist out of the tree's grasp and slumped, defeated. "And I can't do this without her - without any of them."

She would be naive to think that Flemeth would be moved to pity by mere words - or anything, really. The witch seemed to be considering her words, though; thin brows furrowed and sharp eyes that saw far too much.

Then the branches loosened their hold; caught by surprise, Eilin fell heavily, landing on her leg at an awkward angle. It was a good two or three foot drop, and for a moment she simply shook, biting the inside of her cheek to swallow the gasps that pain forced from her throat.

"Take my grimoire, then, and tell her I am slain," Flemeth said. She stood close by, watching the Warden as she climbed to her feet, leaning heavily on the now stationary tree trunk.

Eilin glared at her suspiciously. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

She felt under her leggings for her dagger, and the witch chuckled. "Peace, Grey Warden. I have no intention of harming you."

"And what will you do? Just … disappear?"

"I will leave, and you will not see me again." Flemeth turned her back on Eilin and stepped toward the trees. "Will Morrigan? Who knows."

Frozen to the spot, Eilin stared into the trees long after the witch had disappeared, until a splatter of cold raindrops brought her to her senses.

It was mid-afternoon before she returned to camp; drenched to the skin, limping, and clutching a rabbit she'd managed to shoot by some miracle - and with the grimoire tucked under one arm, wrapped in her cloak. She met Morrigan's eyes across the camp and felt the guilt rush through her at the witch's look of relief, and wondered what would happen if she ever found out. There was always a price to pay for betrayals, even the necessary ones.


End file.
